


I Will

by welpplew



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, also also this is unbeta-ed so like keep that in mind, also i know theyre third years at this point which, also i used a lot of em dashes and semicolons in this bitch as if i know how to use them correctly, anyway, but i figured its better to be safe than sorry, but this is mainly truly just oikawa and iwaizumi, lamooo so idk where this came from i just really love oikawa, like this fic on my drive is literally titled 'fuck idk oikawa feels', means theyre like 17 or 18, slight angst, so anyway just keep the rating and warning in mind as you read, tagged underaged because this takes place while theyre still in high school, this is a fic that started out as a character study of oikawa and turned into smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welpplew/pseuds/welpplew
Summary: Oikawa Tooru is not a god or a genius, he’s barely a king.Oikawa Tooru is blood and bone and flesh which ache and crack and stiffen. He is hard work and late nights. He is human with gold lacquered pride.And when the gold starts to flake and the lines of his person blur— create their own state of liminality— then Iwaizumi Hajime, looks out for Oikawa Tooru.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 6
Kudos: 132





	I Will

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: It's Rotten Work

On the court Oikawa Tooru looks out for everyone, making sure each toss is perfect and specialized for each spiker. A high set for Kindaichi, though not as powerful as the others, his long arms allow him to whip into the ball. Hanamaki hits best when the ball is softer, less direct, with this he’s better able to control the direction and spin of the ball. And for the ace of Seijoh’s volleyball club, Oikawa knows that Iwaizumi spikes best when the ball is given a little more arch than necessary. 

Even the players on the opposing team cannot evade Oikawa’s understanding. Lanky number 11 hits best when the ball is at its highest peak, similar to Kindaichi, except this one calculates his hits. Their ace, number 3, smacks the ball hardest when given a slower set, and for the team’s wild card, number 10, only the fastest sets satiate his skill. 

Oikawa Tooru is not a god or a genius, he’s barely a king. 

Oikawa Tooru is blood and bone and flesh which ache and crack and stiffen. He is hard work and late nights. He is human with gold lacquered pride. 

And when the gold starts to flake and the lines of his person blur— create their own state of liminality— then Iwaizumi Hajime, looks out for Oikawa Tooru. 

-

“Tooru,” Hajime calls out from where he stands at the open gym doors. 

Despite the cool breeze of early night, the gym is still warm from the day, stuffy. To him, the familiarity of the space is an unwitting comfort which he doesn’t dwell upon, but does have his hands a bit restless. 

He pockets them to keep himself from doing anything unnecessary. 

“It’s time to go home, 

_ BAM! _

gotta lock up.” 

A ball smacks the ground on the far side of the gym, a deafening sound covering Hajime’s words. He huffs, and walks to where the other man is grabbing another ball from the nearby cart. 

_ Should’ve known he wouldn't have heard me _, he thinks. 

How many times has he had to pull his captain from this exact gym under these exact circumstances? 

It’s been three years and between the court and Hajime, Tooru’s bias still shows, and if Hajime were a different man, maybe he’d be jealous. 

_ Maybe. _

“Tooru,” he says again, this time while placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Hajime,” Tooru says without looking, his eyes still glued to the 3 remaining water bottles placed at the opposite half-court line. 

“It’s time to go,” Hajime says and the other man looks at him as he always does, brown eyes and a clear face; looks at him with a face that makes girls swoon and men jealous. 

Except Hajime can see the frustration laced in the slight lines that converge right between his eyebrows. Can discern the faint downturn of his mouth. 

“Just three more bottles Iwa-chan,” he says, makes a smile like it truly is just three more bottles and not his own twisted idea of salvation, smiles as if these three serves will finally absolve him of the mistakes made earlier in the day.

_ They won’t. Never have and never will. _

“Please.” 

It’s not a question, if it were Hajime would’ve shot it down. But it’s not quite a request either. If Oikawa Tooru were a weaker man, it might have been a plea. But Hajime knows Tooru doesn’t beg, never truly. 

Hajime frowns but relents, “fine.” He says roughly, “But after three you’re cut off!” 

Tooru laughs at this, tightness in his throat evident. 

Hajime removes his hand and stands back, gives his captain some room. 

Each ball hits its mark. With the sick crunch of a plastic bottle, quickly followed by the deafening smack of a ball on the wooden floor, even blind, Hajime would know that each serve hit its intended spot.

He expected no less from his captain. 

Tooru moves to grab another ball from the cart.

Hajime expected no less, from Tooru. 

“I know three was my limit, but can’t I have just one more, bartender?” Tooru asks in a joking tone, like it’ll mask the truth in his words.

Hajime pushes off from where he was leaning against the wall. 

“No.” 

Tooru opens his mouth to say something but Hajime continues, “your knee,” he says as a matter of fact. 

Which it is. 

Even on the first of his last three serves, Hajime knew Tooru was favoring his left leg in the run up. And even now, as the other man stands, pouting and clutching at a ball, Hajime can see the strain in his leg, can see the muscle spasm. 

“No more.” 

Tooru is silent at this and drops the ball back in the cart. “Fine,” he says petulantly, like a child who was denied another candy. “Then Iwa-chan has to go pick up the balls.” 

Normally, Hajime would smack his captain for baring his nasty attitude, drag him to the other side of the net and force him to clean his mess. But not tonight. Tonight he lets out a sigh and grabs the ball cart the other man half-heartedly pushed his way; yells at a retreating Tooru that he’ll meet him in the locker room and not to walk home alone. 

When Tooru’s out of sight, Hajime goes through the familiar motions of cleaning the gym. He picks up the balls and the ten water bottles that litter the gym floor. Picks up any caps that might have popped off their bottle; collateral damage from Tooru's devastation. 

He leaves the net up. They have morning practice and if the coach gets mad he’s prepared to take responsibility and do the extra couple laps around the field.

He’s too tired to deal with the net right now. Too tired to deal with the homework currently burning a hole in his bag. Too tired to repent, like his captain, for his missed spike which cost his team the game with Karasuno. 

Too tired. 

Tonight, he only has enough energy to take care of Tooru. 

-

The locker room is dark when he arrives. Only the light of the door leading to the showers illuminates the room. 

_ He needs to stop doing this, _he thinks. 

Hajime flicks on the lights and walks towards Tooru’s bag sitting on the bench. Expectedly, he sees a towel neatly stacked beside it. 

“Like usual, the idiot went straight to the showers without bringing a towel,” he mumbles to himself. 

He goes over to Tooru’s locker, the door of which, is ajar and reveals that the man also didn’t think to bring soap or shampoo with him. 

Hajime sighs. 

_ What kind of shower was he planning on taking? _

He grabs the shampoo and body wash from the locker, the towel from the bench, and peering into the bag, he spots sports tape and icy-hot, some extra knee pads and a water bottle, a bottle of painkillers. 

Before heading to the showers, he grabs the water bottle and pills too. 

-

The hiss of a singular shower head is loud in the otherwise empty washroom. And even though it’s only one shower, as Hajime moves closer to the tiny cubicle, the amount of steam flowing from its source still causes his shirt to stick uncomfortably to his skin— he grimaces, _ Tooru and his hot as hell showers. _

Looking around, Tooru’s clothes are strewn about the floor and Hajime makes a mental note to gather them before they leave. 

“Tooru,” Hajime says once he reaches the small cubicle. 

Only the hiss of the shower stream answers him. 

“You forgot shampoo and soap.” 

No answer. 

“Also a towel.” 

Hajime sighs again when he’s met with more silence. 

Hanging the towel on a nearby hook and placing the water and pill bottle on the ground, he says, “Tooru—

I’m pulling back the curtain.”

The first time Hajime did this, pulled back the curtain, he just needed to steal some shampoo. 

But in true fashion, his captain let out a mock scream and went on about his purity and how only girls were allowed to see him like this— _ Iwa-chan! So crude, so bold! Hanamaki, do you see what Iwa-chan is doing? He’ll never find a girlfriend with moves like these _; as if they didn’t often press close together in Hajime’s bath at home, soap bubbles turning Tooru’s hair white and sudsy. 

_ When we get a place together, _ Tooru had said once, back pressed to Hajime’s chest as he lathered shampoo into Tooru’s chestnut locks, _ we should make sure it has a big bathtub so we can both fit comfortably, because no offense Iwa, but with your muscled man body and my gorgeous and strong, yet lithe figure, we need more room, especially if you continue to expand. _

Hajime had only hummed in response and proceeded to wash the soap from Tooru’s hair, careful to keep it from getting into the other man’s eyes. If it were any other location, maybe he would’ve taken mock offense to those words, to the insinuation of Hajime growing _ too _big, but ever since Tooru’s knee started acting up, the tub had acted as a sanctuary for the two of them; an unspoken rule, no fighting. 

On the days when the pain in Tooru’s knee pulled him from his bed; on the days when the world was a little heavier and breathing and thinking and being became too much; on the days he felt liminal, Tooru would limp to Hajime’s house where the other man already had a hot bath waiting for him. 

Sometimes Hajime would join Tooru, whether in the bath helping clean the other man, or on the side of the tub, running his fingers through Tooru’s hair and listening to his anxieties and fears, waiting until the other man succumbed to his exhaustion, after which Hajime would lift the sleeping Tooru out of the tub, dry him off and let him rest in his bed.

Other times, Hajime would let Tooru cry in private. Would wait on the other side of the door until he heard the sound of water draining. At this he would open the door, towel in hand, offer to help the other man out of the tub— Tooru always let him. 

Tooru’s always been like that, like this, he thinks, open and raw, exposed in a manner that comes off as guarded, but never weak. 

At least with Hajime, he has. 

-

When Hajime pulls back the curtain more steam clouds his vision and plaster his shirt to his arms and chest, his eyes go straight to the figure sitting on the small side bench, holding his knee. 

Hajime reaches into the stream of water and shuts off the shower, reaches past Tooru and sets the bottles of soap and shampoo on the bench next to him. He doesn’t enter the space, not yet. 

A beat, a pause, a breath of silence passes before either of the two men speak; the drip and drain of the water are the only sounds that staccato and echo in the room until, 

Tooru speaks first. 

“It was too low,” he says. Tooru’s voice is quiet, so quiet that the sound of water going down the drain almost drowns out his voice.

Hajime still hears it, will always hear it, Tooru’s voice— whether it’s the honey-sweet sound of a man on the top of the world or the wavering and fractured cries of a man on the edge of sanity, Hajime will always hear Tooru; can never not hear Tooru. 

“You were seconds away from flying into two tables,” Hajime says, still standing just before the threshold of the shower. 

Tooru still doesn’t look up from where his hands are, white-knuckled and grasping at his knee. “I’m not a genius, but what kind of setter am I if I can’t even deliver a decent set—”

“Shut up!” Hajime yells, not letting the other man finish his sentence. 

At this, Tooru snaps his head up and if one could consider his face in the gym an afterimage, this face is the original photo, ugly and poignant, his eyes are bloodshot and the creases between his eyebrows are more prominent, his scowl could melt metal, and Hajime’s face is almost a mirror image. 

“How do you think I feel?” Hajime says, anger and agitation growing and coating each word that he directs at his captain. 

“I’m the ace of this team and I couldn’t even deliver the finishing blow!” 

He finally crosses the shower’s entrance to stand directly in front of his captain.

“I failed you!” He says, hanging his head, “I’m sorry.” He says, quieter this time. 

The small cubicle amplifies the anger and frustration in his voice, amplifies the helplessness, makes his words sound louder and angrier and more broken, like thunder when the storm is directly above your house. Harmless, visceral and terrifying. 

Terrifying to anyone who isn’t Oikawa Tooru. 

Hajime’s voice still echoes in the air when the man in front of him abruptly stands up and grabs his shirt, roughly pushes him against the tile wall, and with all the bravery and ugliness that can be summoned, stares Hajime dead in the eyes. 

And Hajime stares back, looks down the barrel of a loaded gun and gives Tooru what he wants, lets him pick a fight— expect it doesn’t last long. 

Tooru’s knee buckles and the tension snaps and before he can think Hajime is moving, arms catching and hold the weight of his captain, and Tooru’s hands, they cling to Hajime’s shoulders, head buried in the crook of the man’s neck. 

If it were any other person, Tooru would’ve pushed them away and limped out of the shower, saving any bit of pride he can; as if walking out of the shower, alone and ass-naked counted as strength. 

But Tooru knew that acting prideful around Hajime was fruitless, he already let this man in years ago, rebuilt his walls to encompass both of them, and now, no matter what Tooru does, Hajime sees past his facade, this fools gold pride he tricks the outside world with. 

So Tooru lets himself cling to Hajime’s shoulders as the other holds him up by his waist, lets himself lean his body into Hajime.

He’s wet and naked and if it were any other day, after any other game, Hajime would’ve definitely let go by now.

But tonight, after his loss— their loss, to Karasuno, Hajime holds him for a little longer, holds Tooru a little more gently, and sets him back down on the bench with equal care. It hurts to be treated this tenderly, as if the other man were cradling his very heart— a part of himself Tooru is usually very rough with.

“I found painkillers in your bag,” Hajime says, once Tooru is back on the bench. The tile is cooler now, no longer warmed by water or steam or his skin. Hajime’s voice is cooler now too, the fight no longer evident in his voice. “You should take some.” 

Hajime steps out of the cubicle, grabs the pills and water, the towel too, which he throws at Tooru. He places the water bottle on the bench next to the captain and pours out two small blue pills into his hand. 

“Here,” Hajime says, holding out his hand, palm face up for him to grab the two capsules. 

Tooru sighs and relents, takes the pills from the outstretched hand and downs them with water. 

Hajime stays standing on the opposite side of the shower’s entrance. 

Lets Tooru breathe. 

Lets himself take a breath too. 

There’s no tension in the shared silence that follows. 

Only breathing. 

"Your set was perfect," Hajime says after a moment. He’s looking at Tooru, waiting for a sign to come closer, to once again breach the threshold of the shower. 

Tooru extends a hand, tugs a little on the end of Hajime’s damp shirt, tugs light enough to let Hajime know he’s allowed to enter— that he’s allowed to pull away. 

Hajime steps forward. Stands directly in front of Tooru like last time, expect closer. He lets his captain cling onto his shirt, lets him rest his head on his lower stomach. 

Hajime says it again. Grabs Tooru’s hands from his shirt and bends down a little so he’s eye level with the man in front of him. 

“Your set was perfect.” 

And Tooru smiles, bitter with contempt. "I know," he says as he touches his forehead to Hajime’s, tears falling, "it was perfect.” he lets out a tired half laugh of resignation—

"— I’m sorry." 

“Don’t be,” Hajime says. 

He brings Tooru’s hands to his mouth, places feather-light kisses to each finger, each palm. He lowers himself to the floor, knees placed on the still wet tile and props himself up, lets himself drop Tooru’s hands to instead cradle his face— kisses just to the side of Tooru’s mouth, where a slight frown is still evident; kisses the space between his eyebrows where the smallest bit of anger still resides. 

Hajime kisses Tooru all over, his cheeks and nose, under his eyes, his lips. 

Kisses delicate and forgiving, for his sake.

For Tooru’s. 

"Why aren’t you always this gentle with me?" Tooru asks, wrapping his arms around Hajime’s neck and leaning deeper into his kiss. 

“Because,” Hajime says, moving from Tooru’s mouth to the pulse point directly under the man’s jaw, sucks a dark bruise onto the skin. 

“Then you’d be too spoiled and wouldn’t know how to act.” 

“Rude,” Tooru says, with no bite and a little breathless as Hajime’s hands slowly find their way under the towel at his waist. 

Hajime hums, sucks another bruise onto Tooru’s neck and lets his hands knead and pinch at the soft, muscled flesh of Tooru’s thighs; he loves them, they’re a contradiction. 

They stay like this, Hajime raised up on his knees, switching from kissing Tooru and sucking at his neck, until Hajime's knees start to ache; the tile is ruthless.

But so is Hajime, and with each whine from Tooru, he's given reason to continue.

Hajime lets his ministrations travel further down Tooru’s body and it’s when he’s biting at the man's inner thigh that Tooru lets out a moan. 

"Iwa-chan," Tooru lets out above Hajime, who has his head dipped between Tooru’s parted legs; one is currently hitched over Hajime’s shoulder. 

With all of Hajime’s ministrations, Tooru's towel poorly acts as common courtesy as it’s messily bunched up his parted thighs and doing very little to hide his growing arousal; if anything, the cloth acts as another pleasure, with the slightest movement, the fabric shifts against and rubs against the sensitive head of his cock. 

"Hajime," Tooru chokes out as the man rucks his leg up higher onto his shoulder and sucks and sucks at the sensitive skin at the junction in which pelvis meets upper thigh, "touch me—

please." 

Hajime looks up from where he’s busied himself at Tooru’s thighs and sees the deep flush of desperation on the face of the man above him; he can feel his own arousal twitch in his pants. 

"Don’t worry,” he says, brings himself up higher, presses more kisses to Tooru's face, “I'll take care of you." 

He catches Tooru's mouth as he finally moves the towel, the fabric catching on and jostling Tooru's cock in the process causing Tooru to gasp as more precum spills forth; gives Hajime greater access to his mouth. 

They kiss sloppy and wet, and when Tooru takes a moment to breathe, Hajime spits in his hand and continues to pump up and down Tooru's length, his other hand pinches at one of Tooru’s pert nipples. 

Heavy and wet, the sounds of their activities are echoed and amplified in the empty shower room which makes every moan from Tooru go straight to Hajime’s cock, straining against his pants. 

He wants so badly to touch himself, to get off to the sounds of Tooru, but his pleasure comes second to the man above him. 

Hajime pulls back from kissing Tooru, wants to admire the sight in front of him. 

Wants to admire Tooru with his saliva slick face and heaving chest, his nipples, one slightly red from Hajime’s hand. Wants to admire his cock, flushed and wet with precum and spit, so much so that a perverse mixture of both dribbles past Tooru’s balls, slicking up his hole. 

Hajime wants to take Tooru into his mouth, wants to swallow the other man down to the base of his cock, let himself bury his nose into the soft hair that grows there; another part of him wants to open Tooru with his tongue.

_ Another time, _ Hajime thinks as he feels Tooru’s cock twitch. He looks up to see Tooru staring at him through half-lidded eyes— _ Another time, I will truly devour this man. _

"Hajime," Tooru manages, one hand is gripping the discarded towel, the other is holding onto Hajime’s. 

“Tooru.” 

“Kiss me.” 

And he does. 

They kiss messy and ugly and Tooru feels so much, feels teeth and tongue and the rough hand on his cock, feels the cool tile on the hot skin of his back, he's raw and exposed in the purest sense of the words and its Hajime who’s made him like this, Hajime who's here and kissing him like it's the end of the fucking world, Hajime who is awkward and loud and powerful, Hajime who makes him feel safe and light and untouchable, Hajime who doesn't expect anything from Tooru expect for Tooru himself. 

_ Hajime. Hajime. Hajime. _

So much of Hajime is here, in the small cubicle, his touch, his smell, his voice, it’s hot, it’s overwhelming and Tooru is content with drowning in this man. 

At the moments leading up to his climax, Tooru is reduced to a whining mess and he can barely kiss Hajime back; Hajime looks into his eyes, and with a final pump, has Tooru spilling onto his stomach. 

_ Hajime. Hajime. Hajime. _

-

"Hajime." 

"Tooru." 

"My hair, can you help me wash it?" 

“Yeah.” 

-

"Here," Hajime places a cold bottle on Tooru’s cheek. "Drink this while I tape your knee." 

Tooru does as he’s told, sits up from where he was laying down on the locker room bench and nurses the bottle of green tea, watches as Hajime sits in front of him and gingerly tapes his leg. 

After their escapades in the shower followed by a proper shower, both men changed into spare athletic clothes and though it’s a little too cold of a night for shorts, Tooru won’t complain— yet. 

There’s still the walk home. 

Hajime takes his time with Tooru’s knee and Tooru lets himself linger on the feeling of Hajime’s hands on him; _ rough but gentle, _ he thinks, _ Iwa-chan’s signature move _. 

Eventually, Hajime finishes with his taping and rises, packs their bags. 

He doesn’t move to leave. 

“Tooru,” He says, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed. 

“Hajime,” Tooru responds, his voice lighter than when he first said it in the gym, less strained than when choked it out in the shower. 

“Will you ever be happy?” Hajime asks. 

Tooru smiles and shrugs, meets Hajime’s eyes and says truthfully—

“I don’t know.” 

Hajime transfers his weight from one foot to the other, he wasn’t really expecting a different answer from Tooru, but it still weighs heavy in his chest.

Tooru counters with a question of his own, a question he already knows the answer to, has known the answer to, for least three years now, but he needs to hear Hajime say it all the same. 

“Will you still take care of me? Even if one day, I am happy?” 

“Of course I will," Hajime says softly and then adds, "who else would?” 

And Tooru preens. 

_ Awkward and loud and powerful and rough _ — 

_ and gentle. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for giving this a read, I had a lot of fun writing this fic and I hope you enjoyed reading it. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by Mitski's song "I Will" and that one pylades/orestes quote. 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Also, here's my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/welpplew) if you want to cry over oikawa or smth


End file.
